Losing Grip
by Viopathartic
Summary: No one knows what's going on with Hermione—nights when she'd wake up crying for no reason; evenings when she'd come home from work, a dead look in her eyes; mornings when she'd stay in bed, curled up, until I left for work. I feel as if I'm losing her. [R/HR], ends [H/Hr]
1. Chapter 1

**Ron's POV**

As I watch Harry walk into the Muggle bar that's becoming my safe haven, I immediately think he's here to gloat. Somehow, he knows that I'm in a shit mood and that things are going badly between me and Hermione. Then, I realize it's just my drunkenness making me paranoid.

No one knows what's going on with Hermione—nights when she'd wake up crying for no reason; evenings when she'd come home from work, a dead look in her eyes; mornings when she'd stay in bed, curled up, until I left for work. I feel as if I'm losing her.

So, after a brief moment of annoyance, I am relieved by Harry's appearance, a familiar face. Not that it's a happy face—he's never happy these days, and of course I know why—but he is my friend. Despite everything that happened since the War ended, he is still my best friend. I hope he still thinks of me that way.

"Alright, Ron?" It's a normal greeting, something blokes say to each other, not expecting any sort of response. So I'm sitting here, mortified at myself for even wanting to tell him what's wrong. But I hold back. I take a deliberate, slow sip of my beer, then set it down, like I'm thinking real hard about my words, when really, I already know the things I want to say to Harry.

"Dean said you were here."

Dean's my drinking buddy. Not that we get sloshed or anything. But I enjoy our conversations, and he's a joker. But today, he had something else to do. I guess he was worried about me; that explains Harry's appearance. For him to go to Harry says a lot of things.

I say: "It's Hermione."

I watch for his reaction—a sign that he doesn't want to hear anything about her—good or bad. But he stares at me dead on, silent. "She's been . . . depressed, I think."

"That doesn't sound like her," he replies, staring thoughtfully at the beer that the bartender slides over to him.

"Yeah. I'm not sure what's happening. A few months ago, everything seemed fine. But lately … lately, it's hard to reach her."

"Have you talked to her?"

"Tried to, but then she always puts on that everything is fine look, you know when—" I stop explaining myself. One, he knows what I'm talking about. Two, because it's the mask that he has on all the time now. I know. No one else is aware-not even Hermione, which I know because I would have heard about it by now-but I know the truth. I chug the rest of my beer, then raise my finger for another one. The bartender nods at me.

"Maybe it's the stress from getting things ready for the wedding." He slides his bottle back and forth between his hands. My vision's getting a bit hazy, but I register the thoughtful expression on his face.

"She knows my mum could handle that," I tell him. "That's not it. I don't know what to do. Even when we have sex, it's not the same. As if—"

"Ron," Harry warns me, the beer coming to a halt, his grip on it tight. His face is turned away; I know it's not because he wants to spy on the young couple snogging next to us. What I just said hits me. My tongue feels loose. There are certain things Harry and I cannot talk about now. I sip the foam from my glass to waste away the awkward silence, but it stays. It'll never go away, I suppose, especially when the silence is the product of conversations about Hermione.

I hear him sigh. I know he's trying to calm himself down, and I wait for him. I expect he'll have the answers. He always knows what's right when it comes to Hermione. I can't help but feel a mix of anger and gratitude towards him. It's odd for me to feel this way, given the circumstances. I'm not ready to analyze what that means exactly.

"If you want to lift her spirits a bit, take her out somewhere distracting." He sounds tired, and I look at him, at my oldest friend—and my enemy, in a sense. A truth we both acknowledge, but never say, because it'll ruin everything for us. This is our silent pact that was made the one day when everything was supposed to fall neatly into place. "Muggle London, maybe. It always made her feel better, when she and I were on the run, when we—" He stops, just as I expect him to. "It's just a suggestion. Take it or leave it."

Harry gets up abruptly, like he's just given up. On me. On our ruse that's been going on. He's not even half-way done with this drink.

He slaps down a few pounds and nods to the bartender. "I'll see you on Sunday for dinner," he tells me.

I'm not surprised when he ignores my raised hand as a goodbye.


	2. Chapter 2

We all assumed the worst during the War. We were going to be severely injured or we were going to be killed. We never considered the possibility of something like what happened to Hermione.

Harry and Hermione forgave me immediately when I came back. Too easily, I should say. I almost wondered if they were really Harry and Hermione. After a few days thinking they were Death Eaters in disguise, though, I confronted Harry. I knew then that he wasn't telling me the truth, but I still, for the most part, believed him when he said that he didn't want our friendship to end, that he and Hermione needed me more than ever. We would deal with everything else afterward. Back then, all I wanted was to be a part of the trio again.

Hermione said this in a more colorful way, and she wasn't as nice to me as Harry was. But she still let me in. I even started hoping again that our relationship, kept secret from Harry, defined only by two or three stolen kisses during this Hunt, could continue. Deep down, I should have known that the new distance between us after my return was more than just her holding grudges.

We don't know what happened to Hermione during the Final Battle at Hogwarts. It could have been a spell. It could have been a physical injury that was non-magic-related. We did know that after the Final Battle ended, in the middle of our celebration, we realized Hermione was not there. We couldn't find her face in the crowds. Everyone went separate ways to search for her. It lasted hours and hours, and I just remembered the sadness weighing me down as I turned bodies over-the dread, followed by relief, followed by grief when I remember that this person who was not Hermione was still someone loved.

Harry was the one who found her. He apparated her straight into one of the emergency wards at St. Mungo's. She was bleeding from the head. There was a swarm of people, and they all seemed to reach for Hermione, to get her out of Harry's embrace, but he summoned some of his raw magic, and none of them could get to her. He brought her to one of the empty beds, away from the other injured wizards and witches. He asked for Madam Pomfrey, who was on call. She was the only one Harry trusted. But even someone as skilled as Madam Pomfrey couldn't do anything. Hermione wouldn't wake.

When you see someone so strong in a weakened state, it does something to you. I felt as if the ground was shaking. I felt as if I would fall into a pit at any moment. And Harry was just as devastated: he was gone. He answered to no one's inquiry about his health. He just sat there at Hermione's bedside, staring at her, but not really. It was scary to watch; I wondered if he was hit by some spell and was suffering from delayed effects.

Later that night, when things calmed down just a bit, I snuck over to visit Hermione. Harry was there already. The way he sat with her, close, hands clutching hers, his gaze upon her face intensely seeking . . . it wasn't hard to figure out that my suspicion was on point. Something colossal had happened after I had left them-something that I would never understand, probably. I watched as my best friend kissed the girl I loved-the girl I thought had loved me-on the lips.

Harry heard the sound of my trainers squeaking against the floor—because of the blood or dirt or both that they'd accumulated. He turned his head, but showed no surprise that I had found him this way. Meanwhile, my whole body shook.

He exhaled slowly, then I watched as he gently brushed aside Hermione's hair so that it all laid against the pillow.

"Hermione and I . . ." I expected something like, we got together, or something more casual. No. More temporary, I hoped. But he said, and of course it's something I remember, he said, "Hermione and I fell in love."

What annoyed me was he said it so matter-of-factly. His eyes didn't dart away from mine. His voice didn't falter. He looked me dead-on, hands still gripping Hermione's, and said it. Just like that.

And I said these exact words-words I shouldn't have said, no matter what I knew or thought I knew then. "It only happened because you two were alone. You were together by yourselves for months. Maybe she felt sorry for you."

I didn't want to hurt him. (I don't want to hurt him). But I couldn't just let Harry proclaim his love for her so easily. He didn't have the right-he should have known it was always supposed to be Hermione and me. _What about me?_

Harry didn't respond at first, didn't react. As if he had considered that possibility himself. He ended up shrugging, not in the way that others might interpret as cavalier, but the gesture he does when he doesn't know what else to say. "We didn't mean to hurt you, Ron. It happened. We just knew.

"We were going to tell you as soon as all of this shite was over."

For the life of me, I can't remember how that conversation ended. I know I left. I didn't want anything to do with him or Hermione. Not then. The time seemed to pass in a blur. Perhaps because everything _was_ a blur. We had bodies to retrieve, families to console, things to rebuild. No matter the hurt I felt, I knew I had to keep myself occupied.

The next time me and Harry were in the same room was the day Hermione woke up. My family was there, too, after weeks of standing vigil. It took Hermione a few moments, but she recognized everyone. But our relief ended quickly after that. She asked what happened to her. We expected that question, since it was something people tended to ask whenever they woke up after a long period of time. However, she showed no remembrance when we talked about the end of the war. She could barely remember Dumbledore's funeral. She didn't know about us being on the run, didn't know that I abandoned her and Harry for awhile . . . didn't know that she and Harry had somehow gotten together.

Only Harry and I know about that last truth. Well, I guess I don't know much about it. I never thought to ask.

Seeing our befuddled looks, Hermione seemed to figured out something was wrong with her.

I don't remember Harry's immediate reaction, when we found out about Hermione's amnesia. But I remember the sight of him as he stumbled away from Hermione's bed slowly. I remember people reaching out to stop him, thinking that he was reacting in despair as a friend. Not, as I knew, as a lover. Harry ignored everyone and just pushed through. I don't know what he did during that time, but he disappeared for a week. After that, he'd popped in and out, but was never around when I was in the room.

As Harry let himself go missing, I saw this time with Hermione as a chance to win her back. Harry's declaration lingered in my mind, but I didn't pay it any mind, because I was finally with Hermione again, making her laugh and bluish with my jokes. I wanted to see her. So I did. I wanted to comfort her. So I did.

I wasn't doing this to hurt Harry. I wasn't. I wanted to help her, and Merlin, I wanted her to love me like before-before this War shite began, when things were innocent, when we were both shy and unwilling to admit that we had feelings for each other.

She was the one who kissed me actually. Admitted that she had liked me in school. Thanked me for being with her in the hospital.

The day she was released was the day we became an official couple—meaning, when people found out about us. My whole family, actually, when they walked in on us snogging. I still can't live that down...

But Harry . . . I was saved from telling Harry about me and Hermione. He had heard it from someone. Hell, I think he might have read it in the _Daily Prophet_ and other newspapers. It was all over the news. Everyone wanted a piece of something good amidst all the tragedy.

Harry didn't say a word to me about it. Harry didn't attack me, accuse me of stealing her from him—like I almost did to him. He didn't try to win Hermione over, or whatever. So, in our own way, we agreed, silently, to never speak about the short period of time in which Harry had Hermione. It amazes me that we still hang out from time to time, though it is rare for us to be alone. Harry does all he can to avoid being in a room with me and Hermione-especially recently, with all the wedding plans starting up.

You know, I make myself feel better by thinking that Hermione and Harry would have never worked out. Sometimes I have a hard time believing that they were even in love, as Harry had told me. When I focus only on Harry, though, I sure as hell believe it. He stares at Hermione too long when she smiles. When Hermione dresses up for something, his eyes take in the sight of her. When Hermione is across the fucking room, he looks after her.

Last time this happened, he realized I was watching too, so he averted his eyes.

Hermione remains oblivious to all of this.

Sometimes she has trouble remembering faces. It has become fascinating to watch her try to recall lost memories. Her nose scrunches up, like when she studies, and her eyes glaze over, and she gets lost in a place where no one can reach her.

I'm scared to lose her.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione's slow descent into something I recognize as depression began only about six months ago. It's horrible watching it. At first, I let it happened, thinking anything I said or did would make it worse. I remember what I was like in school, of course. So, I'd tip-toe around her in the flat we shared. Then, I found the courage to ask what's wrong. Surprisingly, she didn't get mad, or anything, but she wouldn't give me a straight answer. Only smiled and said, "Everything's okay! I just had a rough day."

Hermione got a job in the Magical Law sector of the now reformed Ministry. If I didn't know her better, I would have blindly accepted her answer. But, I've been friends with her for over a decade. And I know what someone lying looks like. I just have to look into the mirror.

Desperate to make her happy again, to bring that spark back into her eyes, I follow Harry's suggestion. Merlin, her smile when I asked her if she wanted to walk around London during the weekend.

It's Sunday, the day of our date. I am upstairs getting ready. I had taken a quick nap in the afternoon, right on the living room couch. The summer heat made me tired. Hermione nudged me awake. She was already dressed, and swatted me playfully, telling me to 'get off my arse.' I love it when she curses. Knowing that she hated being late for anything, I rushed upstairs, afraid I would ruin this date. Ruin the chance to make things better.

I am in our bedroom, buttoning up my slacks when I hear the roar of the Floo, then Harry's voice. "Hermione? Ron?" I close my eyes, feel that familiar flair of annoyance knowing he'd be close to Hermione. I'm better at managing the feeling, understanding that he doesn't do it on purpose. But bloody hell, Harry does have the worst timing. I wait anyways, knowing Hermione will rush to greet him.

"Harry!"

"Hermione! Merlin, you look . . ."

When I woke up from my nap, I thought I was seeing an angel. Hermione had on a nice floral sundress, cut just above her knees. I itched to run my hands over her smooth, bare legs. She wore her hair in a ponytail. It was slightly bushy in the heat, but her face seemed to glow and she was grinning from ear to ear. Looking at her, I was reminded of our Hogwarts days, pre-war.

I know what her appearance might do to Harry.

Harry doesn't finish his compliment. Hermione laughs, and the sound carries throughout the flat. If Harry makes her feel that way, maybe Harry should come back more often.

I'm surprised by that thought. I know I sound contradictory.

"Are you going somewhere?" he asks hesitantly.

"Ron's taking me into London. A bit of a date."

"Oh." A pause. "That sounds nice."

"Yes, I'm excited! Now, what's the matter, Harry? For you to come over?"

"I just want to say hi and just…I suppose, I wanted to see how both of you were doing." But I read between the lines. He must be worried about Hermione.

"Everything's fine. Do you want to stay for a bit?"

I pause at the last button on my dress shirt, waiting for Harry's answer, which comes quickly. "No, don't want to be a bother. Have fun today, alright," he says gruffly. I imagine him contemplating whether he should give her a hug or a kiss on the cheek. I know that Hermione decides for him—probably gives him a quick Hermionish hug, the type that squeezes the life out of you. Then, in my mind, I can see him pulling away fast, giving her one of his tight-lipped smiles.

After Harry leaves, I hear Hermione putting away dishes, pushing chairs back into place. I finally gather the rest of my things, then head downstairs, to find her stock-still in the kitchen. She stands in front of the sink, staring out of the window, into the street. A hand resting on her throat. She's lost, again.

I touch her on the shoulder, and she turns. Her eyes are so blank that I wonder if a Dementor had swept in and taken her soul. Then she comes back to me, and slides her hand down to clasp mine.

"Ready?" she asks.

* * *

I will always remember the Sunday when I see Hermione coming back to me again. Just for a day. She loops her arm through mine, her body close as we are swallowed by a busy stream of Muggles. We joke about how beautiful it is outside, even though the clouds cover the sun, and our shoes get wet as we walk along rain-splattered sidewalks. We pop in and out of stores, annoying clerks with our laughs. It's as if all the unfamiliarity, all of the noise of London life, banishes anything bad in our thoughts. I think to myself: if only we can stay this way. If only.

Later, we randomly decide to apparate into the suburban side of London, replacing the busy streets with quiet, thoughtful lanes lined by identical houses. My mouth waters at the smell of barbequing wafting in the air. We walk through in silence, holding hands. I look at her and find her staring back. There's that small smile again, and my insides flare up; she knows what she does to me.

We're just about to leave the neighborhood, back to our flat to make love, when Hermione stops in her tracks.

It's a fairly large house that catches her attention. It's medium-sized, with red brick walls, the front façade encased by vines, and shutters the color of emerald green. The lawn shines beneath the sun, which had come out to play just now. A sign shows that this house is for sale.

"Hi, are you here to see the house?"

Hermione and I turn to face a woman who reminds me of Dolores Umbridge, that witch, just because she's wearing a blindingly pink power suit. She has a mole beneath her bottom lip, and for some reason, it makes me feel angry just looking at that little thing.

"Um . . . "

"Sure!" Hermione answers. I give her a look and she smiles back mysteriously.

Dolores waves us inside, bringing us into the living room, to a big kitchen, out to the deck in the backyard, back into the master bedroom and three guest rooms, and finally, a library. It was like the house knew Hermione was coming.

"It's so beautiful," she gasps at the sight: walls lined ceiling to floor with books new and old. The previous owner must have been an academic. Dolores-what's-her-face confirms that the owner had wanted to gift the next owner with all of his books.

I haven't seen Hermione look this thrilled since . . . forever it seems. And it's this house making her feel this way. The agent looks expectantly at me, also seeing Hermione's reaction. She holds back a knowing smile—that conniving witch in disguise!

I reach for Hermione's hand, kiss it, and say, "Let's buy it."

* * *

 **Thanks for your comments. Just had to get this story out there.**


	4. Chapter 4

This was a bad idea.

"Yes, Harry, yes!"

" _Fuck_ ," Harry groans.

 _A bad idea._ Bloody Hell.

You could hear the bed frame squeaking from here, fast, mingling with the sound of their ecstatic moans. It sounded like this mystery woman upstairs in Harry's apartment was thoroughly enjoying his antics.

It doesn't help that Hermione's here with me. Why the hell were we here?

Distracted-rightfully-I knock over the umbrella holder, and it clattered against the floor. The sound echoes throughout the hallway.

"Oh no," I say.

" _Ronald_ ," Hermione hisses. I close my eyes tight as the sound disappears. The noise upstairs stops.

"Hello?"

"Uh, hi Harry," I call out. "It's Ron and . . . Hermione."

"Uh, hang on."

A couple of beats later, the stairs whine under his weight. Appearing before us, he's breathing hard as he puts on a T-shirt. His eyebrows are furrowed together as he takes in the sight of us. We must look like a fright. After we left the house-soon-to-be-ours, I suppose-we ran through the rain like a couple of children, sans rainboots, jumping in puddles. We felt free and alive, and I wanted nothing more than to come back home with Hermione, jump in bed, and well . . . let's just say those thoughts were squashed when, out of the blue, she said she'd like to drop by Harry's apartment.

"What?" I had spluttered. I blinked away a few teardrops.

Hermione grimaced. "I killed the mood, didn't I?" I had dropped my arm from around her shoulders.

I laughed shortly. "A bit, yes."

"I'm sorry! It's just . . . I thought we might stop by to chat with him. It seems like we haven't seen him in ages . . . " I stay quiet, not wanting to reveal my meet-up with him. She wouldn't say anything about the bar - she knows I see Dean once in awhile - but she'd say something if I told her about Harry. "I feel as if we need to see him."

"Um. Okay. Okay. Sure?"

"Only for a little bit. I promise!" She smiled at me, and my body tingled from the sight of it. I felt as if I could die happy with her smile in mind.

We got to the apartment, but Harry didn't answer, so Hermione pulled out a key. _A key_. Why would she-well, never mind, she always had this key. Harry gave one to each of us after the war, saying something like, What's ours is yours. I'd never used mine.

"Uh, Hermione, do you think-"

"No, it's fine."

Now we're here, in this damn awkward position, and I just want to run away. Hermione is looking like she did right after seeing her Boggart in Third Year.

"Er...hi?" Harry says.

Hermione speedily answers: "Sorry, Harry. I just wanted to stop by, and I dragged Ron along. We didn't think-"

"No, it's alright-"

"- _really_ , Harry. We'll go. It's obvious we interrupted something, and um, she's waiting upstairs so-" Hermione stops after realizing she has nothing to say really. She looks to me for help. _Me_. Don't know what she was thinking, because I make the stupid move to ask:

"So, have you been seeing her for long?"

Bloody emotional range of a teaspoon…

Harry and Hermione turn to me at once: Harry looking quite confused, maybe a little peeved, like he knows that I know the truth, while Hermione just arches a dangerous eyebrow. I'll probably hear about that later.

"Not long. It's . . . nothing really. I mean, she's no one," he answers intensely. He looks to Hermione almost pleadingly. An awkward silence passes between us, and I can't remember exactly why we came here. Oh, that's right, Hermione wanted to.

"We'll just go now."

"No, stay," Harry says. If I weren't here, I imagine he'd reach out to her, pull at her hand.

"Really," Hermione's fingers curl around _my_ wrist. "Ron and I are getting tired actually, so we'll just-" Harry's eyes follow this movement and he stops with his insistence. He pulls at the end of his shirt and clears his throat. Looks over our heads.

"Right. Sure."

The minute we exit the apartment, Hermione lets her head fall into her hands. She moans. "I am _so_ horrified. I can't believe we walked into that. Interrupting . . . _that!_ " She spins around to face me. "I didn't even know he was seeing anyone."

I shrug, not quite getting the woman's moans out of my head. Bloody hell, it was a bit hot, if I had to admit it, but can't say that to Hermione . . . or any one. Then suddenly, inexplicably, Hermione slaps me on the arm.

"Ow? _Woman_ , what the bloody hell are you doing?" I fear that I might have said something out loud.

"Did you know he was seeing someone? You must have-you're his mate. And you didn't tell me?"

"What? No, I didn't! He hasn't said a word to me." About anything, I want to add, but I'm still rubbing away the sting. She's bloody crazy sometimes.

But as the pain subsides, I realize it's been some time since Hermione's expressed more than just subdued emotions. This is Hermione, alive, as I know and remember her to be. I can't help but smile.

"Ron, why are you smiling?"

"Nothing, I just . . . well, I like to see you smile. Laughing."

The crease between her eyes disappears, moving to the corners of her eyes. That smile: the corners of her mouth just barely lifting upward. "Well, thank you for today. It helped a lot. It helped that you knew what I needed."

I push away the image of Harry in the bar, looking away from me. I pull Hermione close again so that we are nearly chest to chest. I want her to feel what she's making feel at the moment. I want her naked underneath me. My hand slides from the vines of her hair to the middle of her back, going around to graze the sides of her breasts . . . just so.

"Let's get to bed," I tell her, my voice low.

Our noses touch. I see Hermione's pupils dilating. We're just about to apparate when I hear Hermione answer absentmindedly, a breathy inflection in her voice, "Of course, Harry."

We get back to our place, and Hermione starts undressing, and I pull off my belt, but her words stay with me. She must be teasing me, about Harry's coital exchange we'd unfortunately eavesdropped. She is, isn't she?

Hermione pushes me back so that I fall onto the bed.

She has to be.


	5. Chapter 5

We're at The Burrow for Sunday dinner. The kitchen explodes with sounds of laughter and jokes, but there's something about the noise that prods at me, mocks me. _You don't truly have this_ , it says. I take a swig of my butterbeer as I move through the rooms, dodging some flying contraption my brother had invented, for no other reason than annoying people. When I'm about to step into the living room, I freeze. I hear voices. Hermione's and Harry's.

Peeking around for just a second, I see Hermione sitting on the sofa, her hands playing with each other. Harry leans against the fireplace mantle, arms crossed, eyes only for her. The flames behind his legs are charmed with anti-fire spells, but still allows the heat to come through. I get the feeling that I shouldn't be here. That this conversation is only between the two of them. Quickly, before they could see me, I step back and hide behind the wall.

"I'm sorry for bothering you with all this. I bet you didn't expect me to say all of this."

"Hermione, I'm always here to listen, you know that. You've always done the same for me." I can hear him smiling.

"I know. Thank you, Harry. I don't want to cause any worry, though. Please. Maybe this is all work-related. Perhaps it's work, perhaps it's planning this wedding, perhaps . . . "

"Hermione, you don't need to explain it too much. It's fine. We get like this once in awhile, because of what we've been through."

"You went through it the worst and yet here you are, all well."

Only I can understand the heaviness of the pause that follows.

"Don't ever diminish what you've gone through. That never helps, for one."

"Reading self-help books, are you?"

I can imagine Harry's shrug. "Have you taken any sleeping potions?"

"Yes, and they work most of the time, but I might be getting immune to them. I woke up Ron the other day."

"Hermione, have you told Ron? He'd want to know."

"I don't want him to worry."

"It might make you feel better."

"Yes, but it's different. You know. He's . . . he's my fiancé."

Another pause.

"All the more reason to talk to him, Hermione. I'm sure he'll want to know. And it might make you feel better."

"Thank you, Harry, but I want to see if I could fight this before saying anything. Can you keep it a secret, Harry?"

He was the right person to go for secrets. But I wondered if he would keep it. If he didn't tell me, would I feel betrayed?

"I'm here for you, 'Mione."

"'Mione?" she asked, sounding to me amused. "You've never called me that before."

"You don't like it?"

"No, I like the sound of it." And she laughs, softly. "Should I call you something, then?" Her voice sounds closer; they're walking towards the archway.

Quickly, before I'm found out, I head back into the kitchen, to the backyard where Mum's set up dinner outside. When we're all called for dinner—courtesy of Mum's Patronus—Hermione and Harry emerge side by side, then split up to take seats at the table. But not before parting with one significant look. That look, a thousand words in one look. They had always done this, ever since we were eleven.

I think about their conversation. I wonder if they've had conversations like that before. I wonder if Harry's playing me like a fool.

As Hermione sits down, I let my arm wrap around her shoulder and seized by the familiar envy I'd felt toward Harry throughout my life, I make a point to plant a soft kiss to her temple, before kissing her on the lips, slowly and tenderly.

"Settle down, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley!" Charlie calls from his end of the table. Hermione leans away from me, but a small smile plays on her lips. Harry is next to him, preoccupied with buttering a roll. But his jaw is clenched; he's pissed off. Good. He wants to hide things from me, fine? "Some of us are trying to eat."

"I second that," adds Harry lowly.

I keep my tone light, but make sure he hears my message. "Sorry, mate, I know this must be sickening to see—your two mates snogging. But we're in love. We can't help it." Harry takes a slow measured sip of his pumpkin juice, though I see his hand shaking as his glass touch his lips.

"No, that's certainly not something that could be helped."

* * *

"I don't want to sound harsh but you are an awful person. You have left many of your stories incomplete and that too at very critical junctures. I hope you get yourself inline and finish the stories you started or announce that you won't continue. I started to feel that you like to keep people dangling, at cliffhangers; in that sense you are worse than Nolan."


End file.
